


Before I Wake

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romantic Fluff, Violent Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Wire Play, canon universe with a sci fi twist, implied sex, no one dies in the fic but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 01:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18356036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Hank awakes to the smell of frying bacon and eggs as dust motes dance in the sunbeams promising another beautiful day for his and Connor’s staycation. His feet hit the warm wooden boards already bathed in sunlight. Stretching and groaning like a Peterbilt 389 spluttering to life, his back only pops once. Heaving himself off the mattress, he lets out a contented sigh. Connor moving in is more than agreeing with him.__Life with Connor is perfect. Unfortunately, perfection is held together with smoke and mirrors and questionable science ethics.





	Before I Wake

Hank awakes to the smell of frying bacon and eggs as dust motes dance in the sunbeams promising another beautiful day for his and Connor’s staycation. His feet hit the warm wooden boards already bathed in sunlight. Stretching and groaning like a Peterbilt 389 spluttering to life, his back only pops once. Heaving himself off the mattress, he lets out a contented sigh. Connor moving in is more than agreeing with him. 

Following his nose, his feet shuffle onto the slightly cooler tiles of the kitchen. Connor stands at the stove in an old t-shirt of Hanks with boxers peeking out from under it. He contains a snort at the pastel pink bunny slippers concealing his toes. He presses a whiskery kiss to the back of Connor’s neck, “Good morning, gorgeous.”

Connor glances at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Hank doesn’t need to see the soft glow of his LED to know it’s pulsing in lazy blue circles. Hank gives him a solid goose and accepts the answering swat of a spatula with grace.

Connor plates two perfectly cooked eggs and slices of bacon before sliding them on the table in front of Hank. He cracks the top of an egg over easy with a tine of his fork and the yellow goodness threatens to spill over the edge until Hank sops at it with some toast.

Connor fills in the crossword, which Hank always contends is cheating because he’s a walking search engine. Connor ignores him and dutifully fills in the empty squares block by block. By the time Hank finishes up and rinses his plate in the sink, Connor’s almost finished the Sudoku.

He sets it aside when Hank tugs at his chin for a kiss. Hank knows Connor must be analyzing his eggs, bacon, toast, and whatever sciencey-whatsit morning breath left behind, but he doesn’t care. Every day with Connor has been a perfect day, and that’s more than he’s had in longer than he can remember.

He tries to think of the last time he was this happy when Connor interrupts, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Oh, nothin’,” Hank says with a sly tone. “Just thinkin’ about you.” Connor rises to put the dishes into the dishwasher. Hank winces, realizing he always forgets that part.

“What about me?” By Connor’s tone, he doesn’t seem to mind Hank’s dishes. Hank looks over to see Connor peeking over his shoulder from his bent position, fully aware that he’s presenting like an animal in heat.

_So that’s his game, eh?_

Connor rises and turns to face Hank only to find the man already crowding into his space. “I think,” Hank begins slowly, brushing his knuckles across Connor’s cheek, “that you’re wearing far too much clothing for a staycation.”

Connor leans into his touch as if starved for it, “Oh really?” His voice pitches lower than usual, husky with arousal.

Hank should know by now that is how it always begins. A flirty comment here, a suggestive caress there. Connor might pull Hank’s cock free from his sweats to bob on the tip two or three times before tucking him back in. Hank might accidentally-on-purpose press open the maintenance panel at the back of Connor’s neck to stroke at the pulsating wires within.

They might drive each other crazy. They might love it.

Worked up from pressing each other’s buttons all day, the sex that follows is frenzied. It’s a haze of clothes, sweat pressing against artificial skin, and thirium splatters on the sheets. The purplish blue of Connor’s release fades with each passing second and Hank grumbles about androids who don’t have to clean up after sex.

“Just because you can’t see it anymore doesn’t mean I can’t.” Connor eyes Hank’s face with a pointed look. Even though Connor swears he was joking, Hank can’t help but scrub his face harder than a teenager intent on washing away acne.

As they fall into bed for the night, Connor’s arm slips across his chest to rest over his heart, “I love you.”

Hank smiles through sleepy waves trying to claim him. He holds out long enough to murmur back, “Love you, too.”

Hank awakes the following morning yet again to the smell of frying bacon and eggs. He wonders if Connor dusts every day right before he awakes to achieve the effect of dancing specks in sunlight.

He thinks he could get used to being on staycation as they snuggle into their fourth night.

Hank startles awake, cold and feeling hungrier than he ever has in his life. When his feet touch the floor, his knees and ankles throb in protest as if he’s been beaten with bars of soap slung inside pillowcases.

Wondering what in the hell their multiple romps in bed did to him, he finds Connor standing rigidly at the sink, “Con, can you scan me or something. I don’t feel ri—,”

Connor cuts him off, his voice flat and monotone, “He says he needs to see you. Something must be wrong with your pod.”

Hank stares at him for several silent seconds. Despite feeling like complete garbage, he quips, “Well live long and prosper to you too, but, before you beam me up, could you do me a solid and see if I have the flu or something. I feel like complete shit.”

Connor turns to look at him and Hank can tell he’s serious. He isn’t certain if the fear bubbling in his gut is because Connor has suddenly lost his mind or because Connor doesn’t look like he’s crazy. He just looks like Connor except with a touch of sadness.

Connor sighs and sags in the way of a person who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders for far too long. He motions wearily at the kitchen chair, “Please, have a seat.”

Hank does as he’s asked, but he can’t help but wonder at Connor’s peculiar behavior, “Connor, you’re freaking me out. Sit down conversations are never a good sign.”

Connor’s smile isn’t reassuring, “I prefer that you sit in the event that you collapse. It’s much less taxing on my programming if you only slump to the table rather than fall to the floor in the event of an overload.”

Hank hears the words, but he doesn’t comprehend them, “In case I…overload? Like, what, have a fit of hysteria?”

Connor isn’t smiling anymore and it’s somehow worse, “In case your mind can’t accept the reality of our situation.”

“Which is fucking what, Connor? Jesus fucking tapdancing Chri—,”

“None of this is real,” he says it quietly while gripping Hank’s hand. Hank can’t help it. He laughs. Connor waits, as if unsurprised by this reaction. 

“Whaddaya mean not real?” Hank pinches his arm and flinches; felt pretty damn real to him.

“Your senses are real to an extent. Your brain is still connected to this body. You perceive pain and pleasure as you normally would.” Connor continues to watch him warily; it makes Hank’s teeth itch.

“Connor, you’re talking about me as if I’m a fucking head floating in a jar somewhere and this is my simulation meat suit.” Connor doesn’t even crack a smile.

He releases Hank’s hand, realizing the man won’t be soothed, “That’s a bit of a dramatic assessment, but, from my understanding, it’s not far off from the truth.”

Hank peppers Connor with more questions, some serious and others absurd. It becomes clear that Connor doesn’t like when Hank “leaves” because he’s abruptly and utterly alone when it happens.

Eventually, it comes to a tipping point when Connor’s had enough and is clearly worried about Hank’s deteriorating health, “I don’t know what goes on out there; I can only see the programming in here. The other me pinged my mind and he only does that if something is wrong. I could tell you were declining in your sleep—you have to go see him.”

“Fuck it, fine. Let’s pretend I believe all this bullshit. Why would I come back to act out The Sims when I could have my real life?" Connor flinches at his words and Hank realizes how harsh they sound assuming any of what Connor’s saying is true.

"I’m not sure. I can’t talk to the me out there and when you return it’s as if you never left. You have no memory of it. If I had to guess I’d say you don't like what you see."

Hard-won detective skills hone in on that answer, "I don’t like me or I don’t like you?"

Connor’s head tilts, sending the coif at the front into a thoughtful wobble, "Probably both."

"Why do you let me go then if it makes you so lonely?"

"Because..." Connor hesitates but then his lips curve up in a familiar, heartbreakingly beautiful smile, "I've never been good at telling you no."

"I could stay," Hank blurts out without thinking.

"You could," Connor nods as if conceding the point. "But you won't."

Hank knows it's true, can feel it in his apparently not-so-real bones. He has to know even if he’ll wind up right back on this carousel. He also doesn’t want to feel like his body is falling apart. It’s disconcerting to go from hale and healthy to frail and in pain. “So, how do I, uh, go see this other you?”

Connor gives him a sad smile, “You wake up.”

Hank startles awake with a heaved gasp of air that tastes bitter on his tongue. The pain is worse here and it takes everything in his being to sit up and try to find this _Other Connor_.

“Connor?” He’s horrified by how weak his voice sounds. Glancing down, his heart rate soars when he sees how thin his arms and legs look beneath a familiar, worn set of clothes. Even in this place, though, his memory isn’t clear. He doesn’t recall coming here or why Connor would agree to live in a place like this.

It’s a small metal room with no windows. Air hums in through a ventilation system and Hank jerks in horror when he notices tubing protruding from his stomach and arms. The instinct to yank them out falls second only to the amount of pain it causes him to move at all.

“Don’t touch them, Hank,” Connor’s voice calls to him wearily. If he could, he would jump out of his skin.

“Connor, where are you?” Hank’s head turns more slowly now to try to reduce how much it hurts. It doesn’t seem to have much of an effect.

“I’m here,” Connor’s voice echoes around the room, bouncing off metal walls and machinery. A pixelated picture pops up on a computer screen that dominates a large section of wall across from Hank. Hank nearly screams when it moves in jerky motions, like an animation missing too many frames.

“Please, calm down Hank. Your heart rate is much too high.” The picture’s lips don’t move in speech, but its eyes and mouth change expressions. Hank thinks wildly of the emojis he texts Connor on his cellphone. He wonders where it even is—if it exists—in this place.

Hank rises and it pleased to find several feet of tubing allow him to approach the face on the screen, “Connor, what is all this? Where are you?”

Connor sighs and it crackles through the surround sound, “The revolution…it didn’t end well.”

His brain trying to race ahead, Hank draws what he thinks it an obvious conclusion, “Ah, fuck. Connor, I’m sorry. What happ—,”

“You misunderstand me,” Connor interjects gently. Hank can almost imagine a comforting hand resting on his. “It ended badly for _men_.”

Hank stares at the emoji-Connor, watching it change abruptly with the closest approximation of what Connor must be feeling, “The androids conquered mankind. Enslaved them. Markus tried to tell them—an eye for an eye—but they silenced him, too, in the end.”

“How did we get here?” Hank tries to keep up with this bizarre conversation. It’s like he’s reading the cliff notes for a novel whereas Connor wrote the book.

“Oh, that was all you. It was your final directive. Get us far away from Detroit, keep us alive…stay free.”

“Does this look like fucking free living to you?” Hank exhales anger, knowing he’s still missing several pieces of this fucked up puzzle, “Sorry, Con. I’m just…I don’t understand. Why am I like this? Where are you?”

Hank can tell Connor is trying to be gentle with him, but he’d prefer it if he’d rip off the bandage already, “We agreed to put you into stasis as best we could. The technology was new, but it was better than starving to death within a year. This was a final stronghold for men. I synthesize sustenance from their supplies and mix it in such a way to keep your body nourished as best I can. As you can see, it’s not the best experience when you’re conscious.”

Hank tries to follow along with what Connor’s telling him, but it sounds like a sci-fi horror movie Hank would never watch. The first inkling of _this is real_ turns his blood to ice. “Connor,” he begins slowly, “Where are _you_?”

He’s quiet for several seconds, “You’re looking at me, Hank. At what’s left.”

Hank’s eyes dart across the walls, seeking an exit or a way to escape. This can’t be happening. If he could just smell fresh air, he would wake up and Connor would be there to tell him everything is fine.

No door materializes, but Hank does take notice of several cameras around the room, following his every move. He tries not to shudder at the thought that Connor’s become a giant mechanical spider and Hank lives cocooned in his web.

“What happened to you?” It’s the only question that comes to mind as Hank drifts ever closer to the screen.

“No one took kindly to our…to us. I was nearly destroyed in an attack on our home. I’d taught you before how to extract my memories and keep them safe. You contacted Elijah Kamski, and he directed you to here. He died in the final battle for Detroit.”

“So, I, what? Stuck a hard drive into a computer and _whoop_ there you were? Why don’t I live out here with you more often? Why am I always in there?” Hank points at the pod as if it’s to blame. He knows in truth he would rather live where he’s comfortable and well fed, but there is no way he agreed to it from the start. He would never leave Connor alone.

The approximation of Connor’s face on the screen frowns dramatically, and the voice contains the same soft hurt Hank knows too well, “You’re always…happy…in there. With the other me. You’re never nice to this me. Not anymore. Not since I changed.”

Hank wishes there was a part of Connor in this hellscape that he could hug. The realization that Connor hasn’t had a kind touch since uploading to this computer settles like oil in water. The dual reality must make him ache for it worse with each passing day.

Hank presses his hand to the screen where Connor’s sad little face sits, perpetually watching and monitoring. The frown deepens and the pixelated tears would be comical if the truth of their situation wasn’t so horrifying. “I’m sorry, Connor. It’s not your fault. You did the best you could in an impossible situation.”

He remains silent, a tactic Hank recognizes as Connor disagreeing without saying so. Switching gears, he tries to gain new information to better understand, “Connor, what year is it? How old am I?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll pass soon, regardless.” Hank’s insides freeze at the certainty of his tone. He sounds neither relieved nor sad at the thought. Mostly, he sounds resigned.

“Whaddaya mean I’m gonna pass soon? I thought you had it figured out—the food and…the everything?” Hank glances down at his hands. Although Connor won’t tell him, he can tell he’s not _that_ old, even if his body feels ravaged.

“You aren’t weak like this because of an issue with the sustenance paste I pump into you.” Hank cringes at the description. Before he can ask for clarification, Connor continues, “The cancer has infiltrated many of your organs including your bones. I did what I could with what I have here, but…it bought us maybe a few years? You won’t last much longer. I wasn’t going to wake you—you can feel the pain in there when I do—but…I wanted to talk to you again. Before you go.”

Hank’s heart seizes at the palpable pain emanating from Connor’s voice, “Sometimes, you would stay with me for longer when it didn’t hurt so bad to be here.”

Hank shivers at the _sometimes_. His brain reels at the sudden knowledge that he is dying. He’d spent so many years hoping death would come to claim him before he met Connor. Now, he just wants more time.

Connor’s voice pulls him out of his morbid reverie, “I know it’s easier in there with him than out here with me. You love him.”

Despite the bizarreness of what he’s learned, the answer leaves Hank’s lips without hesitation, “Connor, I love _you_.”

The bad simulation of Connor’s face flickers from a smile to a sob in rapid succession. Hank’s heart knows the feeling.

“I haven’t been Connor in a very long time. Watching you with him is the closest I can come to feeling alive. I can’t talk to him in there or feel what he feels when you touch him, but I’m feeding his actions; I can see the code play out like a movie under my direction. It’s still the same programming; he just has a body.”

Hank realizes why he must not linger here very often at the cold explanation. Still, he pities this imprint of Connor, “The other you…in there…he said sometimes I’m gone for a long time. Longer than usual. What did he mean?”

Connor’s face fills with grey on the screen and it takes Hank a moment to recognize that he’s blushing, “You…you always want to go back so quickly, and I get lonely.” Hank’s eyes narrow and his mouth falls open in an angry, jagged gash at the realization that Connor must’ve held Hank in this reality against his will in the past.

Before he can speak, Connor hurries on, “You don’t know what it’s _like_. I talk to you and you can’t talk back to me. I watch your face and you don’t even know I’m here. You don’t smile or even twitch at the sound of my voice. I never made you stay. I always asked. I knew…”

Hank knows as certainly as Connor can’t tell him no, Hank suffers from the same weakness. Of course, he would have stayed if Connor asked him to.  

Connor’s eyes dart away and back again in disturbing jerky pixilation as if he doesn’t want to look at Hank, but his eyes have no other option in this format, “It’s like I’ve been keeping you alive in there with him while I live out here with your sleeping corpse.”

A sob rises in Hank’s throat before it transforms into a racking cough that grips his body. He stumbles back into the chair with all the wiring. His fist comes away flecked with blood when it finally stops. The sight of it expedites a decision he and both Connors knew he would make, “When I go back…”

Connor sighs at the _when_ , knowing full well it would never be an _if_ , “Will I remember this happened?”

“No,” is Connor’s immediate answer, and Hank expected it. “It took us a few tries, but we finally figured out you reset, for all intents and purposes. Every time you go in, your slate wipes clean and you start anew. I change the simulation sometimes, but there are a few you seem to like best. I stick with those.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Hank asks and Connor hesitates before nodding. “Good, boot up that one.” Connor tries to argue, but Hank isn’t having any of it, “If I’m dying, I want our last moments together to be the best they can be for you, too.”

“What about you?” Connor’s voice is small and fragile, more human than machine.

Hank rises to press his palm to the screen once more, desperately wishing this Connor could feel it, “Every minute I spend with you is my favorite.”

The Connor on the screen nods and Hank settles back into the stasis pod. He struggles against a warm wave of sleep as the cover slides back into place and an acrid smelling gas floods the chamber. Before the simulation can take him, Hank chokes out, “I really do love you, Connor.”

Then, he sleeps.

He awakes to the smell of frying bacon and eggs as dust motes dance in the sunbeams promising another beautiful day for their staycation. He looks to the tousled side of the bed where Connor sleeps every night. He tries to remember the dream he’d been having, but it slips through his fingers like a rogue piece of broken eggshell floating in the whites.

_I love you, too_

It’s all he can recall, but the thought makes him smile. Although he sounded a little sad, Hank would recognize Connor’s voice anywhere—even in a dream. He shuffles out to the kitchen to find him. Connor stands at the stove, rose-colored slippers firmly on his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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